


Khanhûn ra Zundushinh

by procellous



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Animal Transformation, Body Horror, Curses, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, battle is messy, do not be fooled by some of these tags this is not a happy au, not that they know that, psychic dreams for everyone, things get worse before they get better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:07:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of Five Armies, Fíli and Thorin return to Erebor and King and Crown Prince. Kíli, they believe, is dead on the battlefield. No body is found, so they bury his armor and weapons in a tomb and mourn.</p><p>Kíli, meanwhile, believes his brother and uncle are dead, and runs away from kingship with Tauriel. Along the way, they are cursed: By day, she is a hawk, by night, he is a wolf. Always together, eternally apart. </p><p>Title is Khuzdûl for wolf-man and bird-lady.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fíli didn’t remember much of the battle itself. He did remember the minutes before the battle, remembered how he stood beside his uncle, wearing golden armor from the armory. Remembered Kíli wearing silver armor, standing to Thorin’s left as Fíli stood to his right. Remembered writing his name on Kíli’s hand so that not even death could part them. Remembered Kíli writing his name on Fíli’s hand. The quill tickled his hand as Kíli wrote. 

Then the battle began, and everything was a blur. There had been so many orcs, and he had been separated from Thorin and Kíli quickly. There was a dim memory of a sword he had been too slow to block that had knocked off his helmet and sliced his face. He thinks he killed the orc, but he can’t be sure.

Regardless of how the battle had ended, he was lying on the battlefield, in a pool of blood. The name on his hand was unreadable from the blood that washed it away. It hurt to move, and he was fading in and out of consciousness.

His eyes closed.

When he opened his eyes, he was in a tent, and it hurt a little less to move. Dimly, he realized that the blood all over him had been wiped away.

“Wha…” he managed to say before he realized that talking hurt way too much to attempt.

“Don’t even think about it,” Óin snapped. “You’ve broken three ribs and cracked four more. Not to mention the arrows in your gut and the stitches in your face that you are not going to tear. You aren’t going to be talking for a good long time, and I will finally have some peace.”

Across the tent, Óin’s patient groaned in pain.

“Hurts…” Thorin said. Fíli’s heart skipped a beat. Thorin was alive, thank Mahal.

Thorin was alive…where was Kíli?

* * *

Tauriel found Kíli, unconscious and badly wounded, in a far corner of the battle field, so completely covered in blood it was difficult to tell what was his and what was the black blood of orcs. She carefully checked him for grievous wounds, anything that was immediately life-threatening, before she called for a healer. 

No-one came.

Tauriel spared one moment to panic before calming herself. She gently found the largest wounds and bound them with torn strips of her tunic before preparing to move Kíli. It was risky, too risky, but she didn’t have a choice. There were no healers nearby, they had all moved into the tents that had been set up in the shadow of Erebor to heal the wounded there.

Tauriel lifted Kíli as gently as she could, keeping him as steady as she could, before heading to the healing tents.

* * *

Kíli hadn't been found yet. 

Fíli was not panicking. He was just nervous. And worried.

Two days after the battle, the only sign of Kíli was a knife. Fíli recognized it on sight as one he forged for his little brother at his coming of age — was that only two years ago? It felt like an eternity.

The knife was covered in blood, both red and black. Rust-colored dried blood caked the grooves of Fíli's maker-mark on the hilt until it was nearly unrecognizable.

Fíli did not break down crying at the sight of Kíli's bloody knife. He did not.

A week after the battle, and they found Kíli's armor, the engraved silver that Thorin gave them before the battle. The armor was destroyed, the chest caved in, the ornate carvings unrecognizable from the blood, blood everywhere, and far too much of it the rusty red of dwarf blood and not black orc blood.

As the battlefield was cleared, they found a broken bow, dwarf-made, a sword hilt that had Thorin's maker-mark, and a second knife.

It had Kíli's maker-mark carved into the hilt.

Kíli's knife, the one he carried in a secret sheath on his upper thigh, and which he never, ever used. Fíli wasn't even sure Kíli still had the knife until Dwalin handed it to him.

Most damningly of all, they found Kíli’s runestone, broken in half. Fíli would have cried, the broken stone bloody and looked so utterly insignificant laying on the thin blanket that covered his legs that he would have cried simply from the pathos of it all, but he had no tears left. His eyes felt like they were covered in sandpaper.

They never found Kíli's body. If they did, it was completely unrecognizable.

The funeral was held not long after they found the knife. In place of a body, the broken bow, two knives, and sword were sealed in the stone tomb. Kíli’s runestone was a heavy weight in Fíli’s pocket, far heavier than it should have been.

Fíli carefully did _not_ think about Kíli's body being eaten by crows or wild animals, or even just rotting away in a corner of the battlefield, as the tomb was sealed, **Kíli son of Víli, Prince Under the Mountain** carved into the stone. He did _not_ think about Kíli being alive, but captured by orcs, did _not_ picture what horrible injuries Kíli could have died from. Did _not_ think about Kíli's eyes glazed over with death. Did _not_ think about Kíli's jaw hanging slackly, never to laugh or smile or tell bad jokes again.

Did _not_ picture his little brother dying, scared and alone.

The statue of Kíli was too solemn, too stiff. The statue stood at attention the way Kíli never did in life, staring boldly into the distance.  He looked…

He looked like a dwarven warrior who fell in battle in a story, bold and brave and resolute, accepting death before surrender.

He looked like Thorin.

The funeral ended, the mourners shuffling out. Only the Company remained in the crypts, saying their goodbyes before leaving.

Fíli stared up — and wasn’t that just typical, having to look up to meet his brother’s eyes — at the statue of his little brother and wished that it would burst into laughter, smile, do anything except for stand grimly at attention, facing foes that didn't exist.

Wished that the sound of his brother's laughter wasn't a fading echo already.

Fíli’s head fell down to his chest as his tears fell thick and fast onto Kíli’s tomb, filling the groves of Kíli’s name with salt water.

“It’s a terrible day for rain, nadadith…” 

* * *

Kíli remembered the battle far too clearly, it was the time after that was a blur. 

He remembered how he fired arrow after arrow, taking down as many orcs as he could, before he ran out and had to salvage arrows from the slain. He remembered drawing his sword when he couldn’t find any more arrows, remembered killing orc after orc, goblin after goblin, warg after warg, until the sword broke in his grip. Remembered being separated from first Fíli and then Thorin. Remembered there being too many orcs, overwhelming him. Remembered pulling out his knife and stabbing every orc he could reach. Remembered spinning around to stab an orc and seeing Thorin crumple to the bloody ground. Remembered his knife falling out of his grip as a mace hit him square in the chest — Azog, the white orc. Remembered fighting on, using the dagger that he kept, literally, in his trousers. Remembered losing that knife too, and slumping against a tree to die. His wounds bled sluggishly.

His eyes slid closed, and he didn’t try to fight against it. He was about to die.

Everything was dark, and then it wasn’t.

The tree was gone. He was lying on a bed. 

His injuries had been bandaged, he could feel the cloth tight against his skin. 

His eyes opened and he saw Tauriel, sitting beside him.

“Where am I? Where’s Fíli? And Thorin?”

“Kíli…there was a funeral.”

“No!” He tried to get up, but Tauriel pushed him back down.

“You’re still injured. They’re fine, I’m sure of it. All I heard was that there as a funeral for a member of the Company. ”

Fíli and Thorin — Kíli was supposed to protect them.

Supposed to keep them safe.

“How long was I out?”

“It’s been two weeks since the battle. We’re in Laketown.”

“Two weeks?” So much could happen in two weeks. Tauriel hadn’t heard anything besides that there was a funeral for a member of the Company, which didn’t mean much.

(If Thorin was dead, that meant that Fíli was king. If Thorin and Fíli were dead, that meant that Kíli was king.

If all three of them were dead, Dáin Ironfoot was king.

Dáin was the Lord of the Iron Hills. Dáin, from all accounts, was a good ruler. Experienced. Wise.)

Two weeks since the battle, and Tauriel hadn’t heard anything besides ‘a funeral.’ Which, again, didn’t mean much.

Kíli’s head hit the pillow with an unsatisfying lack of thump.

They were dead. He could feel it like a hole in his heart.

Thorin and Fíli were dead.

Kíli was King Under The Mountain. All he had to do was go to Erebor and be crowned.

Kíli, who never learned how to be king, how to rule. Fíli had learned, but Kíli had never expected (or wanted) to be king and hadn’t really paid attention to the lessons.

Dáin would be a much better choice for king.

* * *

Fíli was back at his brother’s tomb. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and there was a fresh bandage over his heart. The new tattoo, his brother’s mark, stung as he moved. Whether that was from the tattoo itself or the grief attached to it Fíli didn’t know. Probably both. 

He held the knife Kíli had given him as a name-day present long ago in one hand and one braid of his mustache in the other.

“Kíli,” he said, slicing through the braid. He dropped the limp hair on the carved name.  The bead at the end clinked against the stone, a horribly small sound. “Nadadith.” He cut through the other braid.

It wasn’t nearly enough. Kíli was dead because Fíli wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t keep his little brother alive. What sort of brother was he?

“Achrâchi gabilul, nadadel. Birashagimi.” Tears welled up in his eyes, and his voice shook with the effort to not cry.  “Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal.”

The tears left wet streaks on his cheeks and fell into his newly-shorn mustache. He fell to his knees, fists pressed against the cold, indifferent stone and shoulders shaking.

“Forgive me, little brother,” he choked out between sobs. “I failed you. Forgive me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna pretend they got their weapons back after Mirkwood, okay?
> 
> Khuzdûl translations:
> 
> nadadith: little brother  
> Achrâchi gabilul: formal apology, literally "it pains me greatly"  
> nadadel: brother of (all) brothers  
> Birashagimi: informal apology, literally "I regret"  
> Gaubdûkhimâ gagin yâkùlib Mahal: "May we meet again by the grace of Mahal" (formal goodbye)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later…

There was a strange northern dwarf in the Prancing Pony. He wore a hooded, travel-worn cloak that might have once been blue over a leather jerkin and a dark blue tunic. His blond hair bore two braids coming down to rest on his shoulders, but both hair and beard were unadorned, so no dwarf could identify him. His dark eyes watched everyone who came into the tavern, as though waiting for someone. A pendant hung around his neck, and perched on his right wrist was a magnificent red-tailed hawk.

The dwarf introduced himself as Loni, but most people just called him Stranger, and the most anyone could get out of him was that he was from the north.

He was gone more often than not, but when he was around he did repair work on anything made of metal. Everything from horseshoes and plows to jewelry came to the dwarf, and they came back as good as new.

Nobody paid him much mind. He rarely spoke and caused no trouble, and always left a few days after he had arrived.

And if anyone noticed that the wolves were further from the door the nights Stranger was in town, well, there were odder things in the town of Bree.

* * *

 Kíli pressed a kiss to the feathered head of his Lady, lifting his arm up to let Tauriel fly.

“C’mon, girl,” he urged his pony. “Let’s not let Tauriel get too far ahead, aye? C’mon, there’s a good girl.”

His pony began to trot down the East-West road, the one that lead from the Shire to Erebor. Not that Kíli was going to the Lonely Mountain.

He couldn't bear seeing Erebor. Bad enough he was taking this road away from the Shire, echoing the Company's journey two years prior. Mahal, had it only been three years since they coaxed Bilbo Baggins out of his hole? Only two years since the Battle? Only two years since… Kíli shook his head roughly. Dáin would be a good king, better than Kíli, certainly. If Kíli could barely stand to look at the Mountain his brother and uncle died defending in the Battle of Five Armies, he would make a rather shoddy king. This way, nobody had to know his guilt.

Except for Tauriel and Kíli himself, of course.

Tauriel cried out as she descended, and Kíli obediently raised his arm for his Lady to perch on.

“Is the path clear?” he asked. Tauriel cried once. “Great. Nearly sundown, my love. Not that you needed me to tell you that. You can feel it too, can't you?” Another cry.

“I miss you, jewel of my heart. You're right here, but I miss you all the same.”

Bree was a smudge on the western horizon when the sun began to set. Kíli dismounted and tied the pony to a nearby tree.

“Better not lose the pony now,” he said to himself with a chuckle. “Never thought I'd miss the Quest, but I do.”

The sun sank halfway below the horizon. Tauriel's feathers vanished. Where a hawk once perched a beautiful elf maiden knelt. Tauriel reached out to touch Kíli’s cheek.

“Meleth nin,” she murmured, but just before her fingers brushed Kíli's cheek the sun set and Kíli was no more. In his place was a great black wolf.

* * *

Kíli woke up a few minutes before sunrise and found Tauriel still asleep.

He loved and loathed the sunrise and set with equal measure. On one hand, it was the only time he and Tauriel could see each other as they truly were. On the other hand, it was the only time he and Tauriel could see each other.

He stretched. The worst part of being a wolf was that he couldn't see Tauriel's hair clearly. It just looked gray.

Damn this curse. One day they would figure out how to break it.

And while he was thinking about things he couldn't change, much as he'd like, he missed Fíli and Thorin so much it was like a hole in his heart. They were buried in Erebor, with honors fitting for a King and a Prince. He hadn't stuck around for the funerals. Then again, he had probably gotten a funeral too. The thought was disquieting. He hadn't thought that he would have a tomb in Erebor too. He must have, it would be bizarre for him to not have had a tomb, but he hadn't thought much about it.

“Good morning, meleth nin,” Tauriel said as she woke up. Kíli barked and she laughed. “I suppose I cannot truly call it morning yet, as the sun has yet to rise.”

Tauriel pressed her forehead to Kíli's.

“I love you, meleth nin. No curse can stop that.”

The sun began to peek over the horizon.

Dark wolf pelt melted away into blond hair.

Then the sunlight reached Tauriel and her red hair turned into feathers, her arms into wings, and where Tauriel sat a hawk perched. Kíli ran a single finger along her head.

“And I still love you, miziminh. No curse could change that.”

* * *

A week after they had left Bree, the Misty Mountains loomed distantly on the horizon. Kíli rode towards them, bow at the ready. The Trollshaws had their name for a reason. Tauriel flew overhead, scouting out the territory.

Abruptly she turned right, heading south along the Bruinen River. Kíli turned as well, trusting his Lady's senses.

They rode all day, stopping only when the sun set.

Tauriel landed, her feathers melting into skin and wings stretching into arms. Kíli's teeth grew longer and sharper, his nails turning into claws.

“There was a dwarven caravan that had come over the Misties,” Tauriel said as they continued on. “I could see Nori clearly, scouting out the trail.”

Kíli pressed his nose into her palm and, in a fit of childish humor, licked her hand.

“Kíli,” she rebuked. Kíli gave a wolfish grin in response and Tauriel laughed. It warmed Kíli's heart — Tauriel laughed like she had forgotten how. “We're heading south for a bit, to avoid the caravan, then we'll head east again.”

A dwarven caravan coming over the Misty Mountains. Probably going to visit Bilbo, if Nori was scouting out a trail for them. The rest of the Company must be there too, come to see their lucky number.

Kíli bit back the longing and every instinct he had, as both dwarf and wolf. _Pack_ , his wolfish instincts urged, _Pack is safety._

His dwarfish instincts wanted him to be with his family. Dwarves were not meant to travel alone.

He ruthlessly ignored them. He couldn’t be with his family, as much as he wanted to.

“There were some rumors about a witch living by the Sea of Rhûn,” Tauriel continued as they walked beside the Bruinen River. “She might be able to help us.”

* * *

It was a dream. He knew it was a dream.

He longed to wake up from this one.

Amad stood before him, clad in her pure white mourning clothes. He hadn’t seen her in them since Lashar died in an orcish raid.

“Kíli,” she said, “Oh, Kíli, my beloved oathbreaker, come here.” He took one step, then another, and fell into his mother’s arms. Or tried to, at least—no sooner had he reached out to her than she disappeared entirely.

“Kíli,” Fíli’s voice said behind him, “Nadadith, come here.” He spun, faced nothingness, and then screamed. Fíli was only recognizable through the braids on his brittle blond hair and beard. His face was nothing but a skull, and he reached out to Kíli with skeletal hands. His tunic was dusty, then was dust, crumbling off his bony ribs in large flakes.

“Kíli,” Thorin’s voice came from his right—no, it came from his left—no, no, it was the right side. Thorin was even worse than Fíli, oh Mahal _save him_ , Thorin’s face was covered in congealed blood and oozing pus, an orcish sword buried in his half-exposed skull. His torn mouth quirked up in a parody of a smile. “Kíli, come here.”

“Aren’t you glad to see us?” Kíli was trapped, caught between his brother and his uncle. Somehow he ended up on his knees, head bowed to his chest.

“Dashat,” a new voice said, and Kíli wanted to cry, wanted to break down and sob like the dwarfling he wasn’t anymore. Brittle finger bones lifted his chin up to meet his parent’s face. They were entirely skeletal, without even the brittle hair Fíli had, but a ghostly echo of their face was overlaid with their skull. The face was distorted, warped by time and the horrid wounds Víli had died from, and looking at them made Kíli’s head and heart hurt.

“Lashar?”

“Why are you running, nadadith? Was our sacrifice not good enough for you?” Fíli asked.

“No, no!” he gasped out. “No, that wasn’t it!”

“Then why aren’t you ruling Erebor? Shouldn’t you be with your mother in your mountain?” Lashar’s voice was as cold and unforgiving as the winter wind. “Or is there some other reason?”

“I can’t, I’m not good enough, I don’t deserve it!”

“You can’t? I thought you could—why else would I have died for you?” Fíli could have stabbed him and it would hurt less.

“Not good enough? I thought you would be.” Thorin’s disappointment crushed Kíli like a thousand mountains. “I suppose I was wrong.”

“If you don’t deserve it, perhaps exile is what you deserve. Running like a coward, all alone…not even Tauriel is with you." It was his own voice speaking now, whispering in his ear.

This last was a dream he had often. If he turned his head to look at himself, he would find a distorted, half-rotten corpse, covered in his own blood and in the blood of orcs. Instead, he kept his eyes closed and turned away from the whisper.

Cold, clammy fingers grabbed his head and forced it around. A dry, thin hand forced his head to stay still while the fingers dragged his eyelids open.

“You don’t get to look away from me, uhfar. Not after what you’ve done. Or more accurately, what you didn’t do.”

“I—” His voice hitched, and tears burned in his eyes. “I never meant to—”

The grip on his face was loosening, the bony hands on his head fading away. The corpse that looked like him, that spoke with his voice, was crumbling to ash. Then Lashar’s skeleton blew away in a sudden gust of wind that swept away Fíli’s brittle beard and hair. Thorin was the last to go, his corpse collapsing under its own weight before turning into dust and dirt.

The scene changed—he was in Erebor, Erebor reclaimed and renewed. The walls he had last seen covered in grime and grit had been cleaned and now gleamed and glowed.

Fíli sat on the throne, a dark-furred wolf by his side. Fíli, alive and well, not a skeletal caricature. Though something seemed off about him, somehow, a difference Kíli couldn't quite place.

The wolf by Fíli’s side caught Kíli’s attention. He had his head on Fíli’s thigh, and Fíli was idly scratching behind his ears. Large yellow eyes opened and glanced at Kíli, his jaw falling open in a wolfish grin.

Fíli laughed softly, continuing to scratch at his ears. “Gonna share with the rest of us, Kíli? Or do I have to guess?”

“Fíli?” Kíli said. His voice came out rougher and quieter than he had intended. He cleared his throat and repeated himself. “Fíli?”

Fíli looked straight at him, and Kíli realized what was different—his mustache braids were missing. Short, bristly hairs stuck out at odd angles.

"I don't see anything over there, Kíli. I suppose I'll just have to take your word for it, huh?”

The world faded away into a huge garden, full of trees and flowers. Kíli didn’t have names for most of them, but he suspected Tauriel might know them.

It was a place he thought Tauriel would like, actually—too quiet for her to really be able to consider it home, but a nice place to rest after journeys.

After the nightmares he had had earlier, it was a welcome respite.

Kíli woke up slowly. The sky was the gray of pre-dawn, and the chill wind ruffled his dark fur. Tauriel was asleep, head pillowed on his side. Her long hair fluttered as she breathed.

If only this damn curse wasn’t keeping them apart.

Dawn would come and they would have only a moment together before Tauriel changed form into a hawk.

Hopefully the witch in Rhûn would be able to help. This curse was torture of the worst sort.

Kíli and Tauriel travelled down along the river until it met the North-South Road, then took the road further south. It had been a fortnight since Tauriel had seen the dwarven caravan that had come over the Misties, and Kíli still had trouble getting the thought out of his head.

What if he had been seen?

It was easier as a wolf. Nobody would be able to recognize Kíli when he was a wolf. How could they?

But as a dwarf, the Company would recognize him. The idea that they wouldn’t was laughable. After a year traveling together, how could they not? It might take a moment or two, but they would recognize him. Óin, Glóin, Dwalin, and Balin would recognize him as soon as they saw him. The Dwarves had known him since he was a dwarfling, had taught him to read and write and fight. How many times had Óin stitched him up after he had done something stupid?

Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Nori, and Ori might need a moment or two, but they would definitely see right through his disguise.

A cry pulled him out of his thoughts. Tauriel had something caught in her talons, a small furry something with a long tail.

“C’mon, Tauriel. Let’s not do this — dammit.” The mouse landed on the top of his head, thankfully limp and dead, and rolled off into the dirt.

“You know, it would probably be better if you just ate the damn mice. Be less hungry, that’s for sure.”

Tauriel screamed.

“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?”

Again, she cried out. She swooped down and perched on a tree branch, signaling Kíli with a wing. He crossed the road to where she perched, dismounting in confusion.

“What’re you—” The bush at the base of the tree moved. Blonde hair flashed in the sunlight.

The dwarfling was not as fast as Kíli, and Kíli easily caught her by the back of the collar when she tried to run. As soon as she turned around, his breath caught. She looked so much like a young Fíli it was painful — scruffy whiskers on the sides of her face, blonde hair turning gold in the sun. Stiffbeard, clearly.

“Easy, easy! I’m not going to hurt you.”

Silence from the dwarfling.

“I'm called Lóni,” Kíli continued. “What're you called?”

“Vestri,” she muttered. “My amad was called Lóni.”

“Where’s your amad now, Vestri?”

Vestri mumbled something.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

“They’re dead,” she said. “Both of them, they’re dead.” Her big brown eyes welled up with tears.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said on reflex.

“I was s’pposed to go live with my aunt in Erebor, but I got lost.” Thorin always got lost, he thought before he stopped himself. Vestri was not his brother, nor his uncle, and she wasn’t a replacement for them, either.

“You’re traveling alone? Shouldn’t you be with a caravan?”

“I was. With my aunt and sibling. But I don’t know where they are now.”

“Well, you’re in luck; I’m heading to Erebor myself. Would you like to come with me?”

She pondered this for a while, before nodding.

“All right then. Shall we get started?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdûl translations:
> 
> Miziminh: jewel-lady  
> Amad: mother  
> Nadadith: little brother  
> Dashat: son  
> Lashar: parent  
> Uhfar: betrayer
> 
> Elvish translations:
> 
> meleth nin: my love
> 
> Stiffbeards are one of the seven dwarf clans, known for their blond hair. 
> 
> And in case you didn't notice, yes, Kíli is a natural blond—I'm using the book description for him, instead of the movie casting. I love Aidan Turner, don't get me wrong, but Kíli should be blond! :(


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, Fíli.

It was a dream. He knew it was a dream.

For once, it was one he didn’t want to wake up from.

Kíli stood beside him, laughing as Fíli made a bad joke. Kíli, alive and whole, and just as Fíli remembered him — stubble that refused to grow, dark hair that hung loosely to his shoulders, eyes bright with life and happiness. Kíli, wearing a silver crown beside Fíli and his gold crown. Kíli, dressed like a Prince for all that he didn’t act like one.

 _Kíli_.

Kíli, racing down a hill toward a field and turning to look back at Fíli.

“Hurry up, nadad!” he laughed. “Or I’ll leave you behind!” The scene was straight out of a childhood memory of playing in the Ered Luin, but…

…that wasn’t a field he was racing down into. That was a grave, gaping wide open, and that wasn’t Kíli — the skin stretched tight over his skull, the hair falling out, the eyes loose in their sockets.

“Hurry up, nadad!” Not-Kíli reached out, with a decomposing hand. He was still laughing, laughing with a mouth that had neither lips nor tongue. “Hurry up!”

“Kíli!” he screamed, over and over again, “Kíli!”

“Hurry up, nadad!” Kíli was wearing the ruined armor that had been buried in his place, clothes bloody and torn. His laughter was still choking out through his slack jaw.

“No! Kíli, no! Don’t — don’t leave me behind.” Kíli was gone. The laughing corpse had turned to a skeleton and then to dust in Fíli’s arms, and Fíli was left alone with the ruined armor and his grief. “Don’t leave me behind. I belong with my brother.” His voice was tight, tears blurring his vision.

“Oh, Fíli,” Kíli said from behind him. Fíli didn’t want to turn and look, didn’t want to see the corpse. “I didn’t leave you. You left me.”

Rotting fingers closed around Fíli’s throat.

“You killed me, killed me just as much as though you had wielded the weapon yourself. You weren’t there. Why? Why weren’t you there? You belong with your brother. Why weren’t you with me?” His voice was soft, but it echoed horribly in Fíli’s ears. “Why weren’t you there when I needed you most?”

The scene around them changed. The light vanished. Fíli couldn’t see anything or hear anything, not even the sound of his gasping breath. The only thing he could feel was Kíli’s tight grip on his throat. This was the Void, where the souls of unburied dwarves went.

“Why did you leave me alone here?” Kíli's voice was small, terrified, exactly like when he was little and came to Fíli’s bed in the middle of the night because he had a nightmare. “Why did you leave me?”

* * *

Fíli woke up in a cold sweat. His heart pounded harshly against his ribs as he gasped for breath. He could still feel the cold, clammy fingers of his dead little brother wrapped around his throat.

“It was just a dream,” he whispered, “It was just a dream, just a dream. Just a dream, nothing more. Kíli isn’t there. He’s with Mahal. He isn’t there.”

The night was dark and cloudy, and no light graced the ground. The only light came from the dying embers of their campfire—not enough for a man or elf or hobbit to see, but enough for dwarves. He picked his way across the sleeping Company, careful not to wake anybody, until he reached Thorin.

“C’mere,” his uncle said, words half-slurred from sleep. Fíli should have known better than to try and sneak up on his sleeping uncle—it wasn’t really possible.

He curled up into Thorin’s chest, ear pressed against his broad chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I miss him too, Fíli,” Thorin said quietly. “You’re not alone, as much as it feels like it.”

“I think I prefer when I see him die. It’s better than—”

“Shh, Fíli. It’s okay.”

“He’s with Mahal, right? He’s in the Halls, he has to be.” He clung to Thorin’s tunic, aware that it was slightly childish, but he didn’t care. “He’s with our ancestors, right?”

“Of course he is, Fíli, of course he is.”

“But we didn’t bury him. Wouldn’t he…”

“We didn’t bury the dead after Azanulbizar, we couldn’t, but they’re still with Mahal. Kíli went to the Halls, just like they did.” It was a conversation they had had often, in the wake of a nightmare. The reassurance helped lessen the sting a little. “Now sleep, Fíli, you need it.”

Fíli’s dreams the rest of the night were full of wolves and hawks and mice, and disappeared like mist in the morning.

Nori went ahead to scout, the rest of them following after he declared the paths safe enough to travel. The passes through the Misties would be closed in a few days, and they didn’t have the supplies with them to withstand the harsh winter in the Misties. Fíli had heard horror stories of people trapped in the Misties after the first snowfall.

Unless they wanted to go around the Gap of Rohan, they would be stuck on the western side of the Misties until spring. Which was intentional, really. The time would allow them to make sure that the refugees from Ered Luin got to at least Bree safely, before the caravans left to go through Rohan to Erebor and the Company retraced their steps through the Misties.

And if Fíli and Thorin were avoiding the Shire like a plague, well, it was nobody's business but theirs. The Halfling's betrayal killed Kíli. It was not a forgivable offense.

Of course, Gandalf was to blame too, and of course the orcs and goblins. But he had heard the goblins howling for revenge on their king as they battled, and Gandalf was to blame for that. Gandalf sheltered the traitor, escorted him home. Gandalf had been banned from Erebor, though he likely didn't care.

"Farewell, Kíli! May your memory never fade!" the Burglar had said as he left, and that was the worst betrayal—his brother's name in the traitor's mouth.

Worse than the theft of the Arkenstone. Worse than the Arkenstone in the elves' hands—the elves could have the Arkenstone if it meant he got his brother back. It was a stone, a symbol, important for the second. It was a blessing from Mahal on the Line of Durin. It was more valuable for its meaning than what it would fetch in the marketplace. Thorin had driven the importance of symbolism into his head enough times for it to stick.

But it was nothing more than what it represented.

Thorin had made sure he understood that, too.

He looked up at a hawk's cry, watching the bird circle overhead once before flying away.

The mountains were peaceful in the daylight, the sun shining down despite the cold wind. The stone giants were silent and still, and in the light they might have been just a dream.  

But he could still see the panic in his brother's eyes, how he was prepared to jump and only Uncle's voice held him back.

The terror of that night was nothing like the calm of the mountains now. It was hard to imagine that beneath their feet was the remnants of Goblintown, that the stone giants could wake and resume their thunder battle.

So much had changed, and so much hadn’t. The mountains were the same, the sky was the same, the stars and the sun and the moon were the same, the world around them was the same. It was Fíli who was different, Fíli who had changed. It was an unsettling realization. He wasn’t the same dwarf who had left Ered Luin with his brother, ready to follow their uncle to the ends of the earth.

Would he do the same now? If Thorin asked, would he answer?

The trail was beginning to even out. The mountains were getting smaller, fading into the foothills. He could almost see the flatlands beyond the hills.

The sparse trees were thickening, their shed leaves blanketing the trail and coloring the ground in reds and oranges. The bare branches stood against the sky like cracks in the heavens. The few clouds overhead were thin and scraggly, blown hither and thither by the harsh, cold wind. Everything was quiet: the only sounds were the crunching leaves underfoot, the whistling wind, and the occasional bird call. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

The sun was starting to go down, painting the sky with the same colors as the leaves scattered on the path. Vivid reds and oranges shone from the horizon, streaks of pink and purple strewn across the sky.

The first stars were beginning to come out. At the horizon shone Ibrizlanâz-gimli, the one the elves called Eärendil. A few others that Fíli had no name for appeared as well. The moon had risen a few hours ago, but now it shone brightly. A waning crescent at the end of fall—Durin’s Day would come soon. They would be able to celebrate it with the caravans instead of in the Lonely Mountain—despite the ever-increasing streams of refugees coming home to Erebor, the population had started at twelve. The Lonely Mountain was lonely still, and it would be lonely for a while yet.

The sun set. In the distance, a wolf howled.

As they made camp and bedded down for the night, Fíli clutched Kíli’s broken runestone, hoping it would keep the nightmare away. In a way, it did.

* * *

The battle was horror. The orcs were everywhere, far more than even the combined armies of the elves, men, and dwarves. Wargs snarled, their fangs inches from his face. He nearly lost his head to a snapping warg, and only one of Kíli’s arrows saved him from a messy death. The bats flew overhead, raking their nails against his face and pulling at his hair.

Thorin stood alone against Azog, sword raised to block a blow. But he didn’t see the orc ready a knife in his left hand.

“Thorin!” he shouted, “Watch out, he has a knife!”

Thorin turned at his shout with confusion on his face, and the knife stabbed into his side with a sickening squish.

“No, no, no, no,” he said, nearly dropping his sword as he ran to Thorin, throwing himself in between the orc and his uncle. His fingers were numb, and his hands shook as he sliced off Azog’s remaining hand. The orc screamed in pain, his hand limp and useless on the ground. Behind him, Dwalin swung his axe and lopped off Azog’s head. It fell to the ground and rolled a little ways before stopping. The body fell as well, collapsing backwards under its own weight. But any triumph he might have felt was cut short by Thorin’s labored breathing and gushing blood.

“I’ve got you covered, lad, help him,” Dwalin said, and Fíli fell to his knees beside his uncle and dropped his sword. He peeled back Thorin’s bloodied leathers, tore away his tunic, and stared in horror at the wound. Stab wound—Amad had taught him this, why couldn’t he remember what he should do? There was so much blood.

 _Bind the wound. Keep pressure on it. Unless the blade is poisoned, leave it where it is, it’s holding the blood in._ His mother’s voice came out of a foggy memory, accompanied by a rap of the wooden practice sword. Amad had not been a kind teacher, but an effective one.

He tore a strip from his own tunic—probably not the best choice, it was filthy, but it was better than nothing—and tied it around Thorin’s torso, and pressed the wound closed as hard as he could. Blood soaked through the strip of cloth quickly, and covered his hand with red.

He could feel the blood coming thicker with every heartbeat. He held his uncle’s life literally in his hands. Everything else faded away into a blur of noise and colors, not important, not necessary. All that mattered was Thorin and his heartbeat.

He tore off another strip from his tunic, wider than the last, and folded it in half before tying it tightly around the wound.

Thorin was helpless. The wound would bleed out unless Thorin got help, but Fíli couldn’t do anymore yet. Thorin was helpless and on a battlefield. He needed to be defended, and Fíli was capable of doing exactly that.

A blow from an advancing orc’s club knocked him to the ground, his helm falling off and cutting a deep gash across his cheek. He got up again, and cut off the orc’s head, but the wound still bleed down his face. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and he spat the mouthful out onto the ground.

He thought he would die more than ten times in the next…however long the battle took after that. Even in the nightmare, it blurred into undetailed blood and horror.

What happened next wouldn’t blur, no matter what.

The orcs were retreating. The battle was over.

Thorin groaned in pain, and despite his spinning head, Fíli knelt next to him to resume pressure on the wound. Under his hands, his uncle’s heart beat once, twice, three times—and then didn’t beat. Fíli kept the pressure on and waited until his vision swam with black and he collapsed on his Uncle’s chest.

As he lost consciousness, his last thought was that his uncle was dead.

Then he woke up again, and learned that it was his brother who had died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a Fíli chapter to make up for the lack of Fíli in the trailer.
> 
> Khuzdûl translations:  
> nadad: brother  
> Ibrizlanâz-gimli: sunset-star  
> amad: mother


End file.
